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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276064">Somnis Scalam</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burntfalls/pseuds/Burntfalls'>Burntfalls</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship, Marvel Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:40:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burntfalls/pseuds/Burntfalls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Interconnected characters from SOUPS</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Somnis Scalam</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s not always the one needing saving. Sure, most of the time he IS and he’ll readily admit to that, but sometimes, every once in a while, he gets to be the one with something More to offer. Stephen takes his hand and he’s pretty sure there’s gratitude in the Sorcerer Supreme’s expression and it is the only balm he will ever need against the long-suffering of being the man’s servant.</p><p>Their tally marks twenty-three to one Stephen tells him a bit dryly and Wong asks if that’s kidnappings or chess games and the answer is both. Wong offers to make them tea and wonders at how easily they can go from fighting disembodied spirits of evil to retiring in the library but here they are.</p><p>And next week they’ll do it again.</p><p>--</p><p>The house is steeped in the magic and Wong is unconscious on the floor, of course, and it’s a brief touch but that’s all it takes- her hand reaching for his, smooth fingertips against scarred flesh and it’s over in an instant but it takes he breath away.</p><p>
  <i>He’s not open to it, exactly, but when she takes his hand he doesn’t pull away and as the days and weeks and months slip by he opens up like a creaky limb stretching from rest. Stiff and sore and burnt out by the holding-back but she’s kind and eager enough for the both of them. Their love grows and they watch Peter find a family of his own and they celebrate and he continues to battle his eternal foes with his trusty servant at his side.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And she watches and supports and she’s there when they come back, when he comes back, to help him unwind and they find a ritual in reacquainting themselves when his expression is far-off and it’s been too-long and she has to draw him back to where she is, like an anchor. Or maybe like a noose.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And she sees the moment the decision is made in his eyes as her body is crushed by the evil and Stephen’s hands spin a spell to free her from it. To save her. To use his magic to help himself because he doesn’t think he can lose her. And then it’s gone. It’s gone and the Sanctum can no longer be his and Wong has to say a tearful goodbye because he serves the Sorcerer Supreme and that isn’t Stephen anymore.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And she watches as he grows bitter and resentful of her and everything falls apart. It’s all real-time now and agonizing as he withdraws into himself, thinking he should be a better man than to wish he’d let her die but he does and god help him he tries to drown it out but there’s nothing, nothing so blissfully sweet as that power coursing through him. Power he’ll never have again and it’s all her fault and he hates her for it.</i>
</p><p>And she knows. Her hand yanked back and his expression fractured with a fissure of grief. She knows what he means and it hurts, oh god it hurts, like a red-hot poker to the soul, it hurts but she understands and somehow that’s almost better. She helps him stand and they stir Wong awake and like they always do, they save the world.</p><p>--</p><p>He drinks tea from a bowl-sized mug that May has fixed for him. Stephen is recovering in bed where they’d tucked him in and Wong mulls over the coils of steam that filter over his weary face.</p><p>“It’s bad, isn’t it?” May asks softly.</p><p>“It is.” Wong agrees, just as gentle. They share a moment, quiet and undisturbed, not unlike their shared meditation which has become a custom between them weekly.</p><p>“Can I help?” she always wants to help. Wants to give and give and give until she’s empty from it because she can’t stop and look at herself and realize that she’s empty for another reason entirely.</p><p>Wong shakes his head and he reaches to touch her hand, “You’re a good woman, May.” </p><p>And she thinks that maybe he’s wrong because she’s never Quite Enough, despite all the giving, and she’s sometimes Too Much but there’s no way to reel that back, like everything inside of her is spring-loaded and once the top is off there’s no putting it back.</p><p>She laughs a bit tiredly. These men are so frustrating but maybe that’s why she keeps coming back. That everything that she throws at them is reflected back, You’re Rubber I’m Glue style, and she finds she’s not quite as empty for it.</p><p>--</p><p>He’s looking for something but frankly he’s forgotten what it was, distracted by the man in the garden smoking a cigarette.</p><p>They’ve met before, it was brief yes, but intense and sharp and he really got the sense of the man in the heat of the moment. It’s those moments of most intense pressure that you discover what someone is made of. If it’s flight or fight that springs into action.</p><p>What he’d seen in Bruce’s eyes was resignation, though. Wong didn’t so much wonder why that was as he appreciated Bruce for it. </p><p>They greeted one another with quiet nods- Bruce solemnly watching a chipmunk and a bird fight over some feed- and Wong didn’t offer another greeting. It was odd and maybe it should’ve been awkward, considering they barely knew one another, but for some reason it was soothing. Wong was a walking zen-garden and the patterns of his clothes the zig-zags drawn in a peaceful slow-dance between man and nature.</p><p>Eventually the bird wins and Wong remarks, “I think that’s a tit.” which makes Bruce snort, his nostrils flaring with the acrid smoke that ought to kill him but won’t even touch a cell in his stupid body.</p><p>--</p><p>She’s sitting in the kitchen when Bruce comes back inside, her nostrils twitch at the scent of tobacco and the corner of her mouth curves up. Bruce gives her a fleeting glance, familiarly retreating behind a flicker of a smile and an offer to make them some lunch and Nat agrees.</p><p>There’s something in her eyes that he can’t quite pin down and it’s honestly maddening. He’s a scientist and there should be a formula for this sort of thing but somehow it sort of defies logic and nature.</p><p>She wants to be a shark and he can see how people might see it. Do see it. The fin just above the water, all the danger lurking beneath. But she’s not that and he can see the desperation for human connection beneath her cold reserve- especially when their mouths meet and she’s far too close to put on a mask. Something sharp and hard melts in her gaze and he can see the woman that Might Have Been.</p><p>And it’s impossible. One day one of them is going to run away from all of this, aren’t they? They aren’t made for this life. One day it’ll be too much and they’ll go Too Far.</p><p>So maybe just for now him breaking through her mask and her breaking through his stubborn shielding can be enough. Fleeting but still worth the moments of investment spent.</p><p>--</p><p>She wants to hate him. She doesn’t even know why- something inside of her reacts with a visceral protection over Clint. One he, frankly, doesn’t seem to need. He knows it’s not <i>professional</i> he’s told her but there’s something more than that because it’s not professionalism that really concerns her.</p><p>It’s the power. It’s the vulnerability to that expression of control.</p><p>She’s angrier now that she’s been called out on it. Her faults dragged out into the limelight. Her failings due her past, a past she’s struggled so hard to climb free from, being lain bare for all to see.</p><p>“You don’t have to always be strong.” he tells her in the dark. Her leg is pinned and so is his arm and they wait in the drip-drip-dripping echoes for rescue.</p><p>“I do.” she snaps at him, still angry but they both know it’s not really at him.</p><p>“No one’s going to punish you.” his voice is maddeningly level. Even. Calm. <i>Professional</i>.</p><p>She’s quiet for a moment, trying to shift in spot only to send a new slice of agony through her failing limb.</p><p>“No one is perfect.” he adds, because maybe he hates the silence as much as she does, though she wouldn’t have guessed it for all the staring contests they’ve done in the past. </p><p>“I know.” she mutters, her tone strained. Frustrated.</p><p>“I’m afraid.” he says after some silence of calculation. He’s the handler. He handles. That’s what he does. This moment calls for a quiet meeting in a circle of confession. It requires a setting down of weapons. He has to make the first move, despite the fact that it really should be her.</p><p>She draws a sharp breath and he knows he’s caught her.</p><p>“Yeah me too.” she admits and they both know she doesn’t mean of this damp, dark, temporary prison. They both know she means something bigger and more complicated. And so does he.</p><p>--</p><p>His arm is in a cast so Dane slaps the opposite shoulder, “Here I was thinking it was just your boyfriend that needed the bubble wrap.”</p><p>He’s jovial with Phil in a way he isn’t with anyone else. Maybe it’s the fact that his friendship goes back- to Before they were men who fought monsters. Back to when they were just kids dreaming of it. Banishing the boogie man beneath a bed. Now the monsters are real and they’re dangerous and Phil’s arm is a stark reminder of that and maybe Dane is just desperate for a moment to Pretend.</p><p>He presents Phil with a small leather roll and Phil gives him a <i>look</i> as though to ask what it is.</p><p>“Open it.” Dane looks smug and that’s usually not a good sign but Phil does. It’s a tiny row of ancient instruments all tucked into hand-crafted leather loops on the flat cloth that was rolled up and tied.</p><p>“They’re lock picks.” Phil realizes as he struggles to pull one out. Dane reaches over to help, holding the leather case so that Phil can slide one out. It’s slender and carved from something.</p><p>“Bone.” Dane informs him, “Horse, I think.”</p><p>Phil glances at him with amusement, they both know that Dane has a strange affinity for his own equine. Dane shrugs and offers Phil a rueful look, “I didn’t make them.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Phil says and they put it away and spend some time just being men. Quiet and normal. They’ll fight monsters tomorrow.</p><p>-- </p><p>He likes to help. To offer something to people that they can’t grasp for themselves. He’s seen so much shit go down he’s going to be the one who puts his foot down and says The Shit Stops Here. So when someone comes looking for help, Logan jumps at the opportunity.</p><p>Dane has history with Logan but Logan is so young he hasn’t gotten there yet. Never will. The sadness over the loss of that is shown in Dane’s eyes as he shares a drink with Logan and he finally divulges one of their shared tales. Of brutal battle in which Logan saves the day and Dane murders some bad guys and they drink themselves stupid and have to clean up a mess the following day.</p><p>It’s a pretty simple story. It’s not the story that bothers Dane, he seems to enjoy regaling it to Logan. It’s the fact that it’s lost history now. Sometimes he feels like he’s standing on a sand hill that’s slowly eroding. The foundations he’d built are still there but the edges crumble and the stability he’d felt is starting to give way. </p><p>They walk through the barn and Aragorn greets them haughtily and Dane waves Logan on. It isn’t like he can die and the man is eager for it.</p><p>Flight like this, with the heat and power of the beast between Logan’s knees, it’s something even <i>he</i> has never experienced. Not with all his lifetimes. He’s grateful for it. Something that most people couldn’t give him. Dane just shakes his hand and pats his shoulder and thanks him for the whiskey.</p><p>--</p><p>“No it’s not the same. Or-- probably not anyway.” Warren muses as Logan recalls the ride for him. He doesn’t love horses, Logan knows that first hand, but he lets the other man drag him to the stables to meet this one. Sleek and black and his wings are leathery like a bat’s instead of feathers like Warren’s.</p><p>He’s skeptical but Logan’s encouragement is ceaseless, a tireless determination that You Can Do It. So he does. His fingers brush against the muzzle of the animal and Warren blurts it out.</p><p>“I don’t want them anymore.” his voice cracks as he pets the horse and Logan stares at him, prompting softly for him to go on but he doesn’t. Warren can be frustrating like that. Logan takes his free hand and Warren lets out a tired sigh, apologizes for the outburst and thanks Logan for making him come see the horse.</p><p>They walk back together and Warren offers to make dinner and Logan nods along idly, knowing there’s something In Between Them that he hasn’t been able to shove through yet. All he’s got is time, though. In the end, this’ll be another friendship that comes and eventually goes and Logan will keep on and this will be history. Sometimes he’s tired of writing new history.</p><p>--</p><p>“They just FALL OUT?!” Troy is horrified and Warren rolls his eyes, poking his friend with his toe.</p><p>“It’s like hair.”</p><p>“My hair doesn’t fall out, it’s a gorgeous full mane that anyone would give a left nut to have.” Troy counters hotly.</p><p>“Your hair falls out, it just grows back. The feathers do too.” Warren huffs and stips his beer. They’re watching straight men get makeovers by a flamboyant fivesome and Troy is obsessed with the Fashion Leader.</p><p>“Okay but when my hair falls out it just does so meekly without drawing attention. What is THIS shit?” Troy holds up a white feather and Warren grimaces awkwardly.</p><p>Troy instantly recognizes the expression- embarrassed. Ashamed. He twirls the feather between his fingers, sometimes thinking that his ability to read people is really a curse. Wouldn’t ignorance be bliss? Instead he goes for the save. As he always does.</p><p>“I’m keeping it.”</p><p>“What?” Warren blinks at him, surprised. He’d been on the verge of apologizing. The same way he’d always been apologizing for those wings. For them getting in people’s way. For them causing a fuss. For being so in-your-face. For everything.</p><p>“It’s mine. Finders keepers.” Troy tells him, sticking it in the front pocket of his shirt.</p><p>Warren stares at it, not really sure what to make of it, but Troy can see the gears turning behind his eyes, a solemn settling into acceptance. Troy’s acceptance.</p><p>“Okay.” he finally says and Troy turns their attention back to the show, outside of themselves, sparing Warren a moment to lick his own wounds.</p><p>“That shirt is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen and I love it so much where can I buy one?”</p><p>--</p><p>She looks like Nat but she isn’t.</p><p>Troy is a sharp blade that most people underestimate until it’s slicing through bone.</p><p>He closes the door to the office and she sits prettily, her gaze too invasive to be Natalia’s.</p><p>“Who are you?” his tone is crisp and clean, void of fear or accusation that the other might have expected in this situation.</p><p>“Excuse me?” she arches a brow, “Sir you know me.”</p><p>He knows Nat. This isn’t Nat.</p><p>“We aren’t going to play games here, now either I can call in a team to take you down to cells until you decide to confess or we can have a Very Professional conversation right here in this room.”</p><p>He’s surprised but also not as a blue ripple slides down the woman’s body to reveal a pretty blond thing with a wide mouth and big eyes. She cocks her head, looking smug despite being caught, like a cat with a canary, “How did you know?”</p><p>“I’m good at reading people.”</p><p>“Well that’s boring.”</p><p>“Not for me, it isn’t.” he folds his arms, regarding her, “Raven Darkholme.”</p><p>“Mystique.” she corrects him idly as she stands, “Are you going to arrest me?”</p><p>He considers it- she did impersonate an agent- but he’s also reasonably certain that she didn’t compromise any intelligence and that this is the first time it’s happened. SHIELD could use an asset like her. If she can be steered.</p><p>“No.” he tells her, smooth as a warm knife through butter, “I’m going to make you an offer.” Troy’s always been good at cutting through bullshit and the surprise on her face is well worth it. He’s not looking to climb the internal ladder but if putting a leash on this mutant can do some good in the world he’s willing to take the bullet that is dealing with her.</p><p>He’s already done so with Clint and Nat, what’s one more train wreck?</p><p>--</p><p>She curls up with her head in Ivy’s lap like a contented cat. Not for the first time wondering if that’s just because of Ivy’s pheromones.</p><p>“He figured me out right away.” she tells her, feeling a little pouty over it, “I barely got in the doors.”</p><p>“He sounds like a real winner.” Ivy says dryly, “Imagine being inspected by someone that closely every time you interact.”</p><p>“Awful.” Myst agrees, the soft peach colour of her skin fading to blue as she relaxes under the other woman’s touch, the living hammock swinging slightly.</p><p>“He get under your skin?” Ivy hummed.</p><p>“Yeah. Like the bat does to you.” Myst agrees, tilting her face up toward the woman, “We’ll get him, you know, next week. I’m going to the bank tomorrow to do the surveillance.”</p><p>Ivy pats her cheek affectionately, “That’s a good girl.”</p><p>Their silence is an unworded agreement, a pact in the face of the patriarchy to rebel. Burn their bras or better yet burn down the monuments men have made for themselves.</p><p>Myst wonders not for the first time if it is really just the <i>men</i> or if that’s a projection they’re putting out into the world. A target that is easy to justify. An anger that is easy to funnel. The Bat is always just out of Ivy’s reach. A target she can streamline all of her pain into that won’t be destroyed. He’ll remain, ever out of reach, ever providing that outlet.</p><p>Myst envies her that.</p>
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